You didn't think I wasn't coming back, did you?!

It's been a while. One year and five months, to be exact. After the overwhelming flood of emails and fan mail (from my Mom), I decided not to deprive her any longer. 

I'M BACK, BABY!

The last year and a half has been pretty incredible. 2015 has been a year filled with some unbelievable memories, milestones and new beginnings. 

Here are some highlights: 

-I started a new job at an ad agency where I'm currently establishing my writing career. I've learned that copywriting is a lot like writing comedy, with the exception of excessive cursing, punchlines and bombing in front of a live audience. Other than those minor details, they are one in the same. 


-I fell in love...with a sandwich. 

I first discovered Jimmy John's when I was walking home from work one night and was entrapped by the delectable fragrance of carbohydrates radiating from the shop. I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I'm pretty sure I blacked out from the scent of fresh bread. Needless to say, Jimmy John and I are still going strong and see each other on a weekly basis. I've also gained roughly 17 pounds. #LoveIsLove 



-On September 6th, my brother Jesse, married his long-term lover, Ali at The Liberty Warehouse. I've never experienced such a colossal amount of love for two people, jammed into a single room. The entire weekend was spent celebrating with our closest family and friends, enjoying copious amounts of delicious food and dancing like maniacs. An ideal weekend to say the least.  

Ali made such a stunning and elegant bride (with zero meltdowns - #BlessHerHeart) and Jesse looked so handsome in his navy tux. Both J&A beamed with pure love and newlywed bliss - it was impossible not to get emotional. I probably cried 5 gallons of tears. No doubt, we will all relive that day forever. 

#OnCloudKlein9615

The good stuff isn't over yet - keep reading!

-On October 13th at 6:51pm, the most precious 6 pound 13-ounce human was born. Craig's sister, Stephanie and brother-in-law, Phil welcomed the newest and cutest addition to our family; Elise Marion Sabatino. Guys, she's seriously perfect. I'm not just saying this because I'm her aunt - she is actually the most adorable thing I have ever seen. She'll start crying if you don't hold her close to your heart - I mean, how friggin cute is that?! Steph and Elise are happy, healthy and absolutely beautiful. 

Over the years, I've had the privilege of witnessing Steph and Phil get engaged and then become Husband and Wife. Last February, S&P took me and Craig out for dinner at Jane (order the meatballs and mussels, you won't regret it), where we learned we were going to be an Aunt and Uncle. Well, here we are nine months later. Elise has officially been here for one week and has already managed to steal our hearts and the background of every screen we own. 

Elise Marion Sabatino

October 13, 2015

If you've read this far down, you're all caught up! Hope you enjoyed my first post back after a century-long hiatus. 

Be back soon, 

AK

Turn and Face the Strange, Ch Ch Changes

The aspect of change is the scariest thing in the world. Actually, running out of toilet paper is -- but change is a close second. 

Most people prefer to experience minimal change in life. We become so comfortable and accustomed to our daily routines that anything different will freak the shit out of us. I will confess: I really hate change. It makes me anxious, overwhelmed and sweaty. For instance: I've had the same exact hair style since I was 9 years old. To this day, before every hair cut, I've tried to convince myself to do something new -- cut it short, change the color, get cornrows. But, I never go through with it. I'm too afraid to just temporarily change my appearance. I mean, what if my face looks fat or my cat doesn't recognize me anymore? It's so much easier to go with what you're used to because you already know the outcome. 

Today, I was offered a job at an amazing advertising agency. It's an opportunity that I couldn't pass up because I know it's ultimately the best decision for me and my (potentially) budding career. I have been at my current company since I graduated from college, so the amount of change I'm about to experience is terrifyingly frightening, yet also extremely thrilling. My mind is consumed by worry -- how will I adjust? Who will I eat lunch with? Should I openly admit my love for karaoke? 

With that said, I am happy/anxious/overwhelmed/tired/scared/excited/hungry. I am ready to begin this next chapter of my life and take on new challenges. I'm eager to learn and overcome new obstacles and be able to call my parents and be like, "hey guys, look what I did at work. Aren't I just great?! Aren't you so glad you created me?" 

What I'm trying to say is: change is a bitch, but it's essential if you want to evolve and become the best version of yourself. I'm sorry if that sounded completely lame but it's the truth and you know it. 

Lastly, I want to dedicate this post to two women who have impacted my life beyond words. Ty and Raina, you are way more than just co-workers to me. Over the past three years, we have formed a connection that exceeds many work friendships. You guys have played the roles of mother, sister, friend and therapist through out each and every day and I am so grateful to have had that support from you. Thank you for always listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes and most importantly -- not judging me. You guys make leaving really difficult but I will always cherish the amazing memories we've created over the years. I love you both from the bottom of my heart and I am so thankful to have such strong, beautiful women in my life. 

Throw Back Thursday -- Sleep Away Camp

When I was in third grade, my parents sent me to join my brother at sleep away camp in upstate New York. Geographically, I was only three hours from home -- but in my mind, I felt like I was in a different country. Before I dive into this story, let me paint you a little picture of what Ariel Klein at 8 years old looked like:

I was the trifecta of awkward. I was the only kid my age to have braces and headgear (I was an orthodontist's dream), I had the most heinous bangs across my forehead and, worst of all, I was so chubby. I mean, my legs looked identical to little Italian sausages. Also, at the time my mom worked at the GAP. This meant my entire wardrobe consisted solely of overalls, which was really just the icing on my painfully unattractive cake.

My parents dropped my brother and me off at the camp buses, which were located in the Bloomingdale's parking lot (could sleep away camp be anymore Jewish?). My dad packed me a cream soda and an Italian hero from my favorite deli because he knew eating calmed my nerves (still does). Finally, it was time to say goodbye to the parents. My brother, Jesse, gave them a quick hug and kiss and eagerly hopped onto the bus to sit with his friend Jake. I had more of a dramatic farewell as if I was leaving to serve our country for a year. There were tears. A lot of tears. I was the only kid crying and the last camper to board the bus. I sat in the very front row with the counselor -- which was such a rookie move. Everyone else was sitting with the friends they had made in previous summers. My only friend was my sandwich. Which, I began eating at 10am. Word to the wise: DO NOT eat an abundance of Italian meats and mozzarella before noon unless you want to sweat profusely and endure extreme nausea on a three hour bus ride with total strangers. 

Sleep away camp signifies fun summer activities, lifelong friendships and memories that will last a lifetime. At least that's what it meant for everyone else. I was not athletic and was extremely antisocial, which resulted in me having one friend. Her name was Emily and she brought her violin to camp -- need I say more? 

To say that I hated sleep away camp would be the biggest understatement of the century. I remember on the first night, I found my brother and told him I was going home. I had been there for almost six whole hours and I just knew sleep away camp wasn't for me. Jesse brought me over to the camp director, George, and he told me that if I was still not having fun after two weeks, I could go home. TWO WEEKS?! Hell to the no. I was sure after I spoke to my parents, they would hear my misery through the phone and come to my rescue. FAIL. They told me to give it a fair chance and to be open minded. Eff that! 

I had to devise a master plan. Something clever and flawless that would free me from this camp prison. AH HA! I had the perfect idea! Or at least it seemed genius to my 8-year-old self. I wrote a letter to my parents' best friends and told them I broke both of my arms and needed them to come pick me up. I mentioned that my mom and dad were on vacation, otherwise they would come get me themselves. Needless to say, this plan failed miserably the moment they received the letter and called my parents. 

So, I spent the remainder of my summer hanging out with Emily and tagging along with my brother when I could. As the last few days of camp were coming to an end, my brother was called into George's office, which usually meant you were in trouble. Little did I know, one of Jesse's bunk mates, Sam, had been incessantly making fun of me for being a chunky, overall-wearing, brace-face loser (he wasn't half wrong). To get revenge, Jesse stole Sam's stationary and wrote a letter to his parents pretending to be him. The letter was along the lines of:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I fucking hate you. I'm never coming home. 

You're the worst parents in the world. 

Fuck you. 

-Sam

It was a beautifully premeditated vengeance, but unfortunately Jesse's counselor witnessed the entire thing and reported the crime to George. Jesse spent his last day picking up trash and was asked not to come back to camp the next summer. When we returned home, we were both terrified of what our parents would do. But, to much surprise, our parents were really touched that Jesse took initiative and stood up for me -- even if his method was borderline psychotic. 

The following summer, Jesse went on a teen tour and traveled around the west coast with some friends from school. I spent my summer at a religious day camp as a "counselor in training" and my overalls were a huge hit. 

Everything will be O.K.

My overalls are most likely under the sweatshirt

The #1 Fan of Sports Fans

I believe every man has one true love in his life. Like any relationship, it involves a great deal of compromise, trust and devotion. It's a bond that embraces love and the ability to give and take. It's an emotional connection that, at times, will make you sweat, scream and cry all at once. The love affair I'm referring to is between men and sports. 

Being born and raised in New York, you learn from a very young age the importance of being a loyal sports fan. Often times, new parents will decorate their baby's nursery with their favorite teams and dress them in tiny jerseys and hats. Some crazy parents will go to the extent of naming their kid after their favorite player. 

Growing up, my dad would take me to a ton of games in hopes of me developing a love for sports. I remember as a little girl, we arrived at the Garden on the earlier side so I could see the Knicks as they were warming up. I thought it was pretty cool how tall they were, but that's as far as my fascination went. We then made our way to the seats and my dad bought me enough processed food to give me instant type 2 diabetes (he's a cool dad). After I was finished inhaling a hot dog, cotton candy, ice cream and Cracker Jacks, I tugged on my dad's arm and told him I was tired and wanted to go home. It was only 3 minutes into the first quarter. So, I sat there patiently with the worst stomach churns and observed everything but the actual game. I watched the fans, the snack vendors and the Knicks City Dancers (the only time I even looked at the court). I truly admire my dad's effort, but even at that young age, I knew I would always appreciate Haagen Daaz ice cream more than basketball. 

My next sport outing was to a Rangers game when I was 7. My dad figured since I loved Rugrats On Ice, maybe I would enjoy giant men on ice chasing after a piece of rubber. He took the same approach as the last by feeding my face (which is still the only way you can bribe me to go somewhere I don't want to). There was something about the hockey game that I was beginning to enjoy. Maybe it was the spirit of the fans or the coolness of the ice. I definitely preferred the red, white and blue color scheme over the blue and orange jerseys. I was actually really excited to watch the game with my dad. As we stood for the National Anthem, I felt a small nudge on my right arm. I disregarded it and continued eating my popcorn. Then, within a matter of seconds a drunken middle aged man came toppling down from behind me. My dad's first instinct was to grab the back of his shirt to prevent him from falling on his face, but it was too late; it all happened so fast. The dude did a somersault into the bleacher next to me and split his lip wide open. It looked like a scene from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" -- there was blood, so much blood. I.WAS.TRAUMATIZED. I haven't been to a hockey game since and I still have a fear of bleachers. 

Although these were my weird and uncommon experiences at sporting events, I have a fascination with professional sports and their accompanying communities of fans. Men (and certain women) from all walks of life have this mutual love for a game. It's a fun little world comprised of athletes, stats and regulations that will excite you whether you're 12 or 42.

My boyfriend, Craig, is a walking encyclopedia of all things sports. You could ask him about any player on any team and he could tell you where they played in college, their shoe size and their mother's maiden name. I've witnessed Craig at his saddest and happiest and both instances were in regards to his sports teams. I know his lifelong dream is for me to wake up one day and know how football works, but I just believe that a touchdown should only be 1 point. I mean, who decided to make it 7 points? And it's not even really 7, it's really 6 points and then you get a chance for a bonus point. It's very confusing and gives me a headache when I think about it too much. I'm sorry, Craig -- we'll try again next season. 

The thing I love most about sports is the interactions between fans. For instance: Craig was wearing a Rangers jersey yesterday as we walked through a street fair. Countless men shouted "LET'S GO RANGERS" AND "GO BLUE SHIRTS" as he walked by. He received infinite high-fives, fist pounds and one guy even chest bumped him. That behavior would NEVER happen between women. If I see a girl with a cute top on, sure, I may ask her where she bought it -- but I would never be like "hey girl, sweet romper! Let's hug!" or "holy shit, we're wearing the same essie nail polish, gimme a high-five!" 

While I may not be the best sports fan or even know the rules of most athletic events, I find the bond between sports fans and their teams a really beautiful thing. It's a love that originates from the time you're a little kid and lasts until you're too old to read the scoreboard. It's a cult of supporters who display an insane amount of faith and loyalty no matter what happens during the season. If I had a dollar for every time Craig has yelled, "GOTTA SUPPORT YOUR TEAM," I would have a lot of dollars. So, even though I can't contribute to a conversation about whether Lebron or MJ is the best NBA player of all time, I can consider myself a fan: I'm the #1 fan of sports fans. 

I took this photo at 10am yesterday

The game didn't start til 7:30pm

Because nothing screams festival of lights like lighting the menorah in your Eli jersey

Brian's dad raised him as a Packers fan. 

He is also a big fan of cheese, so I guess it makes sense

This is what my future child will look like

White Girl Wasted

It's been three years since I graduated from college and, boy, have things changed. While in school, I would go to the bars Tuesday through Saturday and still uphold wine nights on Sunday. If this were my current lifestyle, I would be classified as a raging alcoholic, but this behavior is completely standard in college. In fact, if you're not drinking four days a week, you may as well drop out and pursue a career in freak management. 

Since college, I've become a real adult human with a real adult job and real adult expenses. It's terrible. The combination of being responsible and working 40 hours a week is grueling. My social life has taken a hit, too. Friday nights used to involve kegs, shots and short skirts; now they consist of Seamless web and sweatpants. Sadly, staying up 'til 11:45 is considered a wild night for me. 

My pathetic behavior has earned me the nickname "grandma" by friends, and I'm not even upset about it. First of all, if I'm a grandma then I have the complexion of a 25-year-old and impressively perky boobs -- so, thank you for the compliment. Secondly, I am almost always productive on Saturdays since I'm not nursing a hangover from the night before. And lastly, I'm not on a quest to find a husband, which makes watching Bravo and eating bolognese a completely acceptable Friday night. 

I'm quite positive a 7-year-old has a more exhilarating social calendar than I do -- but when I do go out, I get "turnt up" (is that how the kids are saying it?). Give me four shots of Jameson and I'm your new best friend. Give me six shots of Jameson and I transform into a white girl dancing machine. Most girls try to look sexy while dancing by displaying their moves on a table or grinding up on dudes. Not this girl. I'm probably the only person in the United States who still "raises the roof" and requests Motown at a bar filled with people in their mid 20's. I have about as much rhythm as a mom at a Bar Mitzvah. The worst part is: once that Jameson warms my belly and "ABC" comes on, I am convinced I'm the sixth member of the Jackson 5. In my drunken stupor, I'm certain that my moves are a hit and everyone is digging them -- I mean, why else would strangers be crowded around me taking videos? This is usually the last memory I have from the night.  

The morning after is always agonizing. These are usually the chain of events after I wake up: 

1) Intensely chug a bottle of water

2) Make a vow never to drink again (seriously, this time)

3) Realize there's makeup all over my pillow because I slept on my face

4) Make a vow always to take off my makeup even when I'm drunk (seriously, this time)

5) Whine and moan in bed for 30 minutes

6) Order a bacon, egg and cheese on Seamless

7) Begin receiving texts from friends containing videos of me dancing like a straight up freak

8) Make a vow never to dance in public again (SERIOUSLY, THIS TIME)

I guess the reason I don't go out as often is that I can't bounce back the way I used to. In college, I could drink until 5 am and still be able to make it to my 12 o'clock class and then go out again that night. Now after a night of drinking, I wake up with bruises, muscle aches and a hangover that lasts for the better half of the week. It ain't pretty. 

I always have a blast when I go out and I would go out more often, but the truth is: I don't think you guys could handle it. 

This is me at Craig's sister's black tie wedding

I sure am a classy broad

This is me ruining a really great moment for the bride and groom

This is me practicing ballet at a bar

This is me definitely singing Whitney Houston 

and definitely not knowing who that hat belongs to

This is me dancing by myself without a care in the world

This is me after I stole a banana costume

Craigy No Likey

My boyfriend, Craig, is truly a wonderful fella. He is everything I could ever want in a man - handsome, supportive, kind, funny -- and he puts up with me which is quite the accomplishment. Although we are totally smitten, there are things about your partner that will really irk you -- for Craig, it's the majority of my wardrobe. 

I would say my personal style is a cross between Ellen DeGeneres and a six year old boy. Being comfortable is essential to me regardless of where I am. My go-to outfit is usually jeans (95% spandex), a tee shirt and a pair of kicks. Do I look like an adorable lesbian? Yes, I do. Am I comfortable? You bet your ass I am. Though Craig doesn't mind my standard look, here are some items in my closet that he loathes:

Leather Jackets

Not only are leather jackets the perfect addition to most outfits, you feel like an effing bad-ass wearing one. Whenever I throw on a LJ, Craig will immediately say, "Oh, is Shawn Hunter coming out with us?" He says I even make this face while I'm putting on the jacket as if I own a Harley and roll my own cigarettes. Welp, sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but everyone and their mother's rock LJ's these days so it's time to embrace it. 

How I think I look in a leather jacket

Oxfords

Ladies oxfords are a huge hit right now. They're casual, comfy and oh, so cute! For months, I have been on the hunt for the perfect pair but couldn't decide if I should get them in metallic or a bold color. I showed Craig the two pairs that I was deciding between and his response was, "gross." My initial reaction was to show him a pair with a tassel but then I realized he was referring to all oxfords in general. He said they make him "uncomfortable" and can't stand when he sees women wearing them. He also said if a pair were to arrive at our apartment he would burn them, throw them out the window and reimburse me. 

Blazers

Blazers are ideal for a casual or formal outfit and are extremely flattering for most body types. I have enough outrageous blazers to be the next Liberace. Craig detests blazers so much that he calls them sports jackets. I incessantly tell him the difference between the two, but he refuses to correct himself. What's most embarrassing is when we're in public and he'll loudly make a comment like, "you got food on your sports jacket" or "it's hot, why don't you take your sports jacket off?" Let me be clear: Craig Sager wears sports jackets, women do not. 

Okay, maybe I see his point

Face Time

Yesterday, I treated myself to a facial at Bliss. And by "treated" I mean I had a gift card. Usually for my birthday, I will ask for a Bliss gift card because: 1) it's my most favoritest spa, 2) it's two blocks from my apartment and C) it smells of lemon and sage...yummay!

After checking in at the front desk, I was led into a locker room that I imagine looks very similar to heaven. It was all white and light and very spacious. If I was capable of doing a cartwheel, I would have. I then put on the robe and slippers they provided and went to unwind in the waiting room. 

If the locker room is heaven, then the waiting room is a blissful afterlife (see what I did there?). The peaceful, dim-lit room was fully equipped with citrus ice water, tiny snacks and a speaker playing a jazz rendition of Hall & Oates "Sara Smile." I poured myself a glass of water and took a nibble of cheese, barely restraining myself from eating the entire plate. I was in a fancy spa -- I needed to be Fancy Ari. I then took two slices of cucumbers and placed them over my eyes as I sat and waited for my facial. 

I heard another spa patron enter the room, so I took the cucumbers off of my eyes. She was giving me a weird look, and I knew it was a weird look because it's the same exact look I give whenever I think someone is acting like a freak. I felt really insecure and figured it had to be the cucumbers. I knew I should have just eaten them. But then, I realized why she was looking at me that way. My robe was WIDE open and my left breast was nonchalantly hanging out. I was giving this poor woman an unwanted peep show. Just when I thought I couldn't embarrass myself any further, I muttered to the woman, "sorry about my boob." SORRY ABOUT MY BOOB? WHAT? WHY? Why do I do this to myself?

Luckily, I didn't see her again after my facial. So, I went back into the locker room, stole enough samples to get me arrested for a felony and then headed home. 

Way to go, Fancy Ari.

I should probably stick to at-home spa services